In my own fanciful imagination, I am caught off guard by reality. At times my own mannerisms, gestures and thoughts have shocked--awed me in a distinct realization that I am not who I think I am. The image I posses of myself--what I see in my mind mirror, as opposed to a real mirror, is different if not diametrically opposed. If I were downloaded into the matrix, my visible change wouldn't be mere regress into a sleek '90's-era black overcoat, stemless shades, and bleached, preening hair. I'd look something more akin to, well something else. All I know is that when I look at myself in the mirror, I often times retort: "That is really me?"
And the distinct estrangement I sense when I observe my external demeanor, extends often further into what I sense about me, but that which I cannot see. And the multitudinous layers of self-hood that I portray in any given moment, with any given set of interlocutors, has left me, especially acutely today, with the simple yearning to connect on a level that perhaps extends beyond self-presentation or on a level the sinks below it. Whether my "deepest self" (if it exists at all) is a higher state or an underpinning one, I face it everyday. I face it like the sun faces the unending universe, reaching with each step in time even further into nothingness. You, dear friend, are my nothingness. For if I were to break open your rib-cage and dig for eternity one micro-inch after another, would I have ever discovered your deepest self? And would our deepest selves ever find each other?
In the mix of color, sleepiness, and drowsy sex-talk over wine or whiskey, haven't we already been here a thousand times before? And don't we, each time, wish that something would happen (like maybe the world ending or a heart-attack)? When we come back around, and we finally viscerally understand what the mundane means, don't we secretly wish we could stop here, in this moment, forever? And finally be done.
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